


Masterpiece

by Destina



Series: Temptations [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Early Work, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-02
Updated: 1999-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan makes Qui-Gon into the canvas for his fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

"Body art," Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, looking over the long list of acceptable tributes to their Sidrian hosts. "That one might be appropriate." 

Qui-Gon looked up from his datapad. "Is there nothing else?" he asked dubiously. 

"Well, let's see. Offering of the second-born child…servitude of one representative of your choice, or trade of two…various weapons…" 

Qui-Gon crossed the room and stood reading over his padawan's shoulder as Obi-Wan recited the list of ever more repugnant activities and offerings. 

"I see your point," Qui-Gon murmured, as Obi-Wan reached the end and looked up at him expectantly. 

"So which of us shall it be, Master?" Obi-Wan tried to suppress the laughter in his voice as his master sighed, a deep, long-suffering sigh. 

"You know as well as I, Obi-Wan, I have no artistic talent. It will have to be you." Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan, whose face was alight with mischief, and felt a smile forming on his lips. "Which, I'm sure, was what you intended all along." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Obi-Wan retorted, in a tone which held absolutely no sincerity. He pushed past Qui-Gon into the tiled bath, hiding his smile. 

Qui-Gon followed and stood watching Obi-Wan as the younger man lit several glowsticks and placed them strategically around the blue-tiled room. The flickering light caught and glittered on the shining tiles, casting strange, brilliant flecks of white and blue across the room. 

"They say natural light is best for such things, Padawan," Qui-Gon pointed out mildly. 

"Who's doing this, you or me?" Obi-Wan demanded, folding his arms and arching an eyebrow. Qui-Gon shrugged helplessly. "Good. Now take off your clothes." 

Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled. "All my clothes?" 

Obi-Wan didn't flinch. "All of them. This tends to be a little messy." 

"Oh, naturally," said Qui-Gon, already shedding his tunic and trousers. With a lazy smile on his face, he stepped back into the 'fresher area and reached up to take hold of the long bar at the top of the 'fresher. 

Obi-Wan found himself transfixed by his master's long, lean body. Taut muscles flexed temptingly underneath smooth skin of Qui-Gon's torso, running down into the narrow waist. Below, his master's - 

"Aren't you a little overdressed, Padwan?" 

"What? Oh." With a grin, Obi-Wan quickly stripped off boots, tunic and pants and ran a hand through his hair, eyes gleaming. His master's eyes raked down his body, possessive, and evidence he liked what he saw become evident as Qui-Gon's hardness stirred and rose against his belly. 

"Better get started," Qui-Gon said, shifting his hips slightly, eyes narrowing. 

Obi-Wan's grin widened, and he turned his back, deliberately displaying a tempting, round ass, one hip thrown out and to the front as he rifled through his art kit. "I'm using the fluoropaints Bant brought from Temeran on her last visit," he said, quickly mixing some colors together, letting the Force guide his choices. 

His skin was burning from the heat of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, and he closed his eyes against the imaginings in his memory, of a cool tongue against his skin, soothing that blistering, savage heat in his body… 

"Padawan," Qui-Gon growled softly. 

Obi-Wan shivered at the low tone, knowing his desire was shared, as always, by the man behind him. He collected his paints in one motion, turning back to Qui-Gon and spreading the supplies across the high counter next to the 'fresher. "Turn around," he ordered, feasting on the sight of Qui-Gon leaning forward, muscles tensed against the pull of his body against the bar. 

Slowly, Qui-Gon complied, reaching back up and hanging on to the bar, arms spread out to the far edge of his reach, creating a smooth canvas for his artist. 

Obi-Wan couldn't resist. His hands found their way onto Qui-Gon's back, sliding up the spine, fingers apart to cover all the skin he could reach and touch. Across the shoulder blades, lingering over the shoulders, slipping under the arms and snaking around to the chest, to brush across peaking nipples… 

"Paint, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon demanded in a strangled voice. 

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan answered, in a sultry and altogether tempting way. His arms tightened around Qui-Gon for a moment, and he dropped a kiss against that broad back before retreating. 

Obi-Wan took up a brush made of Temeranian silk and drew its fine, dry tip down Qui-Gon's skin, producing a shudder of anticipation. Quickly, he began to paint, using the most vivid colors he could mix. 

The edges of a dark, burned-out sun appeared before him, its corona blood red and harsh orange, covering one shoulder and down over the blade. Wisps of angry violet atmosphere curled and licked down the channel of Qui-Gon's spine, flaring in circular whorls. Obi-Wan took his fingers and swirled the paint, stirring the colors together to produce black and deep blue shadows across the base of the spine. His hand curved across the edge of one hip, palm flat, stroking down and around slowly, then moving away to return to its task. 

Qui-Gon's breathing became harsh, and his head dropped forward as the brush tickled its way across the nape of the neck, illustrating the solar flares streaking from his dying sun. 

Gradually, Obi-Wan was running out of skin; his spacescape was taking on a life of its own, and demanded more room on Qui-Gon's torso. Taking the box of paints in his hand, he stepped into the 'fresher and moved around to face Qui-Gon, his own back pressed to the cool tile. Qui-Gon's head rose, and fierce eyes fixed on Obi-Wan's for a moment before he leaned forward, capturing Obi-Wan's mouth in a hungry, claiming kiss. 

Obi-Wan moaned against the invading tongue, and with his free hand, pushed away his master. "Not yet," he pleaded, aware his words would not bring him much time. 

His brush flew across the chest, stopping to flick delicately, gently across one nipple, making it the center of a bright supernova. Qui-Gon made a small noise of shredding self-control, and he moved, writhing under the brush, muscles straining with the effort of keeping still. 

Wispy indigo tendrils of spatial gases twined with soft purples and electric greens, wafting down across a taut stomach which caved, twitching, under the bristles. Floating red mists descended across the hipbones, down… 

Obi-Wan's fingers found their way into the red paint, seeking a hue to match the sensation of heat in his belly, of his own too-sensitive skin, of the erotic pulse in his throat. He reached, taking hold of Qui-Gon's cock in one slippery, fluid motion, and painted its length, even as his head bent and he took one nipple in his mouth, teeth working slowly, biting gently. 

The explosion of lust was primal, and welcomed, and was all Obi-Wan could have hoped. One large hand knocked the paint box from his hand, and he dimly heard it crashing to the tiled floor, felt paint splatter his bare legs as he was caught and pulled close with brute force, crushed against his masterpiece, smeared with passion equal to his own. 

Fingers pawed at his neck, pulling him closer, demanding that he yield, and he lifted his face blindly in surrender. Thorough lips covered his own, nudging his lips apart, opening him like a flower to allow a sensual tongue inside, bringing a fleeting twinge of rapture. 

Obi-Wan was lifted, and his hands braced against hard, powerful shoulders, trailing through slick color. He wrapped his legs around Qui-Gon's waist as the tip of a hard, needy cock pushed against him. He bit at the lips devouring him as he was entered, slowly, painted with desire inside and out. Some sort of noise, incoherent, made its way from his throat as Qui-Gon thrust into him, lowering his body by degrees, spreading him to fill him more deeply. 

Waves of color crested against him, sweetly carrying him. Qui-Gon's hips rolled against him, driving him higher, joining them more completely. "Qui-Gon…master!" he gasped, but his need to cry out was swallowed quickly, and the rhythm became all there was, a rainbow of joy. He shattered against a wall of white crystal, made perfect by the flaws in his creation, a part of it, completed by his master's ecstasy. 

His master lowered him to the ground with shaking arms, and held him as they stood together, stunned by the fading power of their joining. 

Gently, Qui-Gon nibbled at Obi-Wan's neck, tasting the sweet residue of paint. Lips close to his padawan's ear, he whispered, "Now that's what I call art."


End file.
